


If My Love Were in Vain

by charlottepriestly



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, artistic Andy, i just want Miranda to be happy tbh, maybe possibly soulmates if you believe in that sort of stuff, quick one shot for my girl even though i'm not too happy with it lmao, set post-cannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24023920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottepriestly/pseuds/charlottepriestly
Summary: There is one thing that Miranda has never shared with anyone. Nobody has been worthy of knowing this side of her, nobody has understood. Until now.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 50
Kudos: 356





	If My Love Were in Vain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elle_nic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_nic/gifts).



> This fic is dedicated to Elle, who wanted a story about Andy being artistic.
> 
> Inspired by this video of Anne Hathaway singing (song starts at 2:44)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m8ubmPSJ_vI&t=180s
> 
> References:
> 
> Gianni Schicchi: 'O Mio Babbino Caro'  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AUU1mdn-btc
> 
> Carmen: 'L'amour est un oiseau rebelle'  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2snTkaD64U
> 
> Madama Butterfly: 'Un Bel dì Vedremo’  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Y26XXKPZpI
> 
> This has not been betaed, so all mistakes are mine. I hope you enjoy!

There are few things in life that truly move Miranda. That is to say, not much can reach into her deeply buried emotions. There has always been a certain distance between herself and everything around her, a glass wall she can’t quite break through. Maybe because she is incomplete, a puzzle with a missing piece. The only thing that ever makes her feel truly alive, apart from Runway and her daughters, is opera. There is something about the symphonies of orchestras and choirs, the resounding voices reaching impossible notes that affects her like nothing else can. 

Which is why she has never shared it with anyone, and she highly doubts she ever will. There are too many people who feel they have the right to know everything about her, who want to learn all her secrets and judge every aspect of her person. So, she protects this part of herself with vicious and resolute intent. Her love for opera is hers, and hers alone. Not even her litany of ex-husbands were privy to it, since Miranda had kept her music under lock and key, and had bought the most expensive headphones on the market. Only her daughters have occasionally heard her listening to it in the quiet evenings, but they have never enjoyed it so they let Miranda bask in the music in peace.

Despite her impressive collection of vinyl and CD’s, she only went to the opera occasionally. Only when the performance was truly worth it did she dare to go. After all, if she went to every single opera that caught her interest, her secret weakness would become common knowledge to anyone who knew who Miranda Priestly was - that is, most of the country and the wider world.

Tonight is one of those exceptions. She has been looking forward to this particular show for some months now. She hadn’t even bothered to check the cast after seeing the names ‘Puccini’ and _‘_ _Gianni Schicchi’_ in the advertisements for coming shows at the Ópera Metropolitana. Instead, she’d bought herself a ticket in her preferred seat - close enough to the stage to study all the intricate details in the costumes and the décor, but far enough that the acoustics were perfect. 

Anticipation curls in her stomach as she sits with her back straightened, the air around her crackling with that indescribable energy that envelops a room before any show. Excited murmurs of hundreds of voices fill the space, eager eyes dancing over the stage and the awaiting orchestra, the beautiful crystal chandeliers bathing everything in a warm glow. Miranda takes a deep breath, adoring the delicious promise of beauty that she can practically taste in the air.

The lights dim. Keen applause thunders through the hall. The curtain rises. She leans forward.

The first aria is flawless, the actors perfectly comedic and in character. Already, Miranda loves it. She is eagerly anticipating the character of Lauretta to appear onstage and sing Miranda’s favourite aria, _‘O mio Babbino Caro’_. That song alone is one of the main reasons Miranda has always wanted to see this particular opera in person. It is also why she has refused to see who would be interpreting the role, because Miranda wanted to be surprised.

However, nothing could have prepared her for the moment she catches sight of Lauretta walking onto the stage. The shock takes her breath away in a sharp exhalation.

The flowing red dress drapes over the woman’s body like it has been made to hug her figure. Brown waves of cascading hair glint like silk under the spotlight. Luscious, heart shaped lips are painted like corals, her cheeks rosy like twin flowers blooming upon her skin. Coffee-coloured eyes look out over the audience for a brief moment, and as they drift in her direction, Miranda feels like someone has punched her in the abdomen.

_Andrea._

She is so stricken that she is unable to focus on the scene unfolding on stage. Her stunned gaze is stuck to Andrea as the woman lingers in the corner, listening to her father sing and criticise the other characters. Miranda can hardly believe she’s staring at one of her most promising ex-assistants, a woman she has not seen in over four years. Yet no matter how ridiculous, how utterly _absurd_ it is, there she is, glowing under the rays of the stage lights. 

Andrea steps away from the corner, slowly making her way towards her father. Every part of Miranda breaks into goosebumps when she hears the first notes of Lauretta’s aria. This song always has this effect on her, but now it is combined with a pounding in her chest that is bordering on painful.

When Andrea opens her mouth to plead with her father, mourning her true love, the voice that fills the hall overwhelms Miranda. A disarray of emotions storms through her while she listens, frozen in her seat, as Andrea sings with the most beautiful voice Miranda has ever heard. It is so powerful, so honest and sweet that Miranda is unable to draw breath. She watches, entranced, as Andrea gives a flawless performance, her expressions and gestures laden with agony, her voice filled with sorrow.

A strange sensation grips her. She feels as though her chest is about to split open, and a tight knot forms in her throat. With dawning horror, she watches her vision blur with unshed tears. Nothing has ever moved her like this. Nothing has ever shaken her to her core, dismantled every fiber, torn her apart thread by thread like this.

When the aria comes to an end, father and daughter embracing at the centre of the stage, the roaring applause that erupts all around Miranda sounds far away. Like she is underwater, muffled and distorted. Andrea leaves, a wide smile gracing her features. Miranda’s eyes follow her until she disappears completely, and for the rest of the performance she is left feeling unsettled and lost. She can barely pay attention to the plot happening on stage, and for the next hour, a million thoughts echo in her bewildered mind.

The final scene brings Andrea on stage again. Her voice is as transcendent as it was during her other performance, perfectly in tune with the male voice accompanying her in the duet. Mercifully, it is a short song, and Andrea does not cause such a visceral reaction in Miranda this time. When Andrea and her lover draw close, however, Miranda’s stomach turns unpleasantly. Acid burns in her lungs as they kiss, and she is forced to swallow back the sickening sensation that scorches through her.

At last, it finishes. Miranda rises abruptly from her seat and leaves before the cast even has the chance to emerge on stage for their ovations. She feels the ridiculous need to run.

_Ironic, isn’t it? She ran away from you, and now you’re doing the same._

The evening air feels cold and brisk against her warm skin, but it does nothing to calm her racing pulse. There is something deeply troubling stirring inside her, something unfamiliar and daunting. She can’t fathom being in an enclosed space right now, claustrophobic and breathless as she is, so she doesn’t call for Roy to pick her up. She pulls her coat tighter around her torso and begins walking towards Central Park, wanting to lose herself in the darkness between the trees. 

She spends the entire time thinking about Andrea Sachs.

  
  


.oOo.

  
  


Miranda shifts in her seat, trying to fight the onset of nerves and something else she refuses to acknowledge. The voices around her only serve to make her anxiety worse, and she wishes the lights would dim just to have them quiet down. It is loud enough inside her head as it is.

She has spent the past two months thinking of little else other than Andrea. It’s like she’s been cursed. Hardly a day has gone by in which thoughts of her ex-assistant have not plagued her - something that has been beyond inconvenient, not to mention utterly maddening. How was she supposed to concentrate on anything when she could practically hear Andrea’s voice carrying through the concert hall in perfect waves of divine symphonies? How could she make herself forget the thrill of seeing her again after so long?

It’s ridiculous, of course. Miranda is a busy woman with no time for foolish distractions. It seems the fates have decided to conspire against her, however. Normally, in times of stress or emotional upheaval, she would resort to listening to opera to find her balance again. Except she can’t even do _that_ anymore without imagining what Andrea’s voice would sound like, singing each and every one of Miranda’s favourite arias. She feels like she’s losing her mind.

Even more so in this moment. Why she’d searched Andrea’s coming performances was absurd, and why she got a ticket for this concert was not even worth pondering. She was too afraid of what she would find if she dwelled on it too much.

 _Carmen_ is not one of her favourite operas by any means, but she enjoys some of its music. She tells herself that she is here solely for that reason. She is definitely not here to see Andrea interpreting a passionate, fierce, sexually liberated Spanish woman who never compromises her freedom and would rather die than obey the whims of a jealous man. Certainly not.

Finally, at last, the lights go down. The curtain rises. Applause fills the space that was drowning in needless voices. Miranda takes a breath.

She almost loses what is left of her composure when she sees her. She is wearing a low cut maroon dress that flows onto the floor in a gypsy cut, the corset emphasising her curves to the point where Miranda has to wonder how she will be able to sing in its tight confines. Her hair is wild and untamed, her eyes dark and her lips red. The way she carries herself is worth admiring - all confidence and sensuality, moving like a lioness prowling her dominion. There is a sultry smile upon her lips, so tantalising that Miranda feels her mouth dry.

She is magnificent.

When Miranda saw who Andrea was portraying in her next performance, she’d been dumbfounded. It seemed ridiculous. Sweet, innocent, wide-eyed Andrea with her mid-western ideals and charming naivety couldn’t possibly pass off as a seductive femme fatale who did not attach herself to anyone and wielded her sexuality like a finely sharpened blade.

Evidently, she’d been sorely mistaken.

There is nothing innocent about Andrea now. She is a searing goddess who knows her power and takes pleasure in teasing and taunting those around her. Miranda holds the armrests of her seat in a vice like grip as she watches Andrea drape herself over multiple men, lifting her skirt to show tantalising glimpses of long, toned legs, using water to get her skin wet until it shines under the spotlights. She hypnotises everyone around her.

She also blows Miranda away with her voice once again. No corset could diminish the sublime power of her voice, it seemed. Her performance of _‘L'amour est un Oiseau Rebelle’_ is easily one of the best Miranda has ever witnessed, and she is left wondering where on earth Andrea has gotten her raw talent from - and where she’d been hiding it during her tenure under Miranda’s employ. For the next better part of two hours, Miranda is in a constant battle between being in awe of the sublime performance and losing her breath over the enticing beauty that is Andrea.

In the final act, when her jealous lover demands she obey him by threatening her life, Carmen implores him to kill her or set her free. Andrea is fierce in her delivery, her shoulders straight and chin held high in defiance. She is remarkable.

The music drowns the crowd in its intensity as the two lovers stare each other down. Miranda can feel her heart pounding against her ribs. Andrea is facing the audience when a furious Don Jose lunges forward and stabs her in the abdomen. Her dark eyes lose focus, her lips part as she releases a shaky exhalation, her very last breath. Her body loses its strength as the life drains out of her, and she falls limp in his arms. When he lowers her to the ground, her eyes flutter shut, and Miranda does not realise she is crying until the stage is swept in darkness and a roaring applause filters through the fog that has clouded her senses.

It is over. Andrea is alive, and it is over.

No amount of deep, calming breaths manage to settle her frazzled nerves. She curls her hands into fists to hide the trembling of her fingers. The beginnings of an anxiety attack presses down on her chest until she can hardly breathe. The pressure barely eases up even after the cast take their bows and retreat backstage.

She needs to see her. She has no other choice.

By the time most of the crowd disperses, Miranda has regained some of her composure. Constantly reminding herself that Andrea is _alive_ , that it was all a performance, has somehow alleviated the tightness in her chest. She feels more in control again, even though she is holding onto her purse as if her life depends on it, the leather under her grip digging into her skin.

She makes her way backstage. The staff immediately grant her access, of course, and they give her directions to Andrea’s private changing room upon command. When she finally reaches the door, she pauses to take one last deep breath before raising her hand to knock.

“Come in!” Andrea’s voice carries through the wood, and Miranda reaches for the door knob before she can talk herself out of it.

“Hello, Andrea.”

Andrea’s eyes find her in the mirror’s reflection and immediately widen.

“Miranda!” She exclaims. 

She spins in her seat at the vanity where she was finishing the process of taking off her makeup. Her face shows her natural beauty now, skin glowing without all the cosmetics and products that had given her such a sultry look onstage. She looks more like herself now, more like the sweet, innocent woman Miranda once knew.

Closing the door behind her, Miranda leans against the wall in an attempt to look aloof and relaxed.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Andrea adds, as if she’d been expecting the visit.

Miranda doesn’t hide her surprise and her confusion very well despite her best attempts at her usual poker face, but Andrea simply continues to look at her with a friendly smile. She does not understand why she feels so out of place here, why talking to this woman after four years makes her feel so unsettled. She wants to climb out of her skin, hide away from those all-assessing eyes that are so intently focused on her.

“Did you enjoy the show?” Andrea asks when words fail her.

“I- Yes, I did,” Miranda manages to utter, and forces herself to pull it together. “You did not include opera singing in your resume.” 

It’s the first thing that comes to mind, but apparently it’s the correct thing to say because Andrea throws her head back in laughter. The familiar sound is almost as beautiful as her singing. It immediately breaks the indescribable tension that has taken hold of Miranda in its steely claws.

“No, I didn’t,” Andrea grins. “I started taking classes as a hobby after Runway, and discovered that I love it almost more than I love writing. My teachers were very impressed that I had never received any training, and immediately put me up for auditions. I got pretty good roles in the first year of trying out, and, well, here I am.” 

She shrugs, and Miranda is immediately drawn to the amount of skin on display. Still in her Carmen costume of the last act - a beautiful sleeveless black gown with a tight corset, red embroidery in the shape of a rose at her hip, and a cascading, long skirt in classical Spanish style - Miranda cannot help but drag her eyes along the vision that is Andrea. Under the stage lights, she had been ethereal. But here, under the dressing room lights and mere feet away, Miranda is certain that she has never seen anyone more beautiful.

“Well,” Miranda clears her suddenly dry throat, and then forces herself to look away. “I’m happy to hear you are getting the recognition you deserve. I had no idea you had so much talent for this.”

“Oh,” Andrea breathes. She is looking at Miranda as though she has never seen her before. Miranda supposes this is one of the very, _very_ few honest compliments she has ever given Andrea. She hadn’t even thought the words before saying them. “Thank you, Miranda. That means a lot to me, especially coming from you.”

The smile Miranda receives is more than just friendly. It’s dazzling in its brightness, such sincere delight lighting up Andrea’s features, and Miranda loses her breath for the umpteenth time that evening. Before she realises what she’s doing, before she can even consider the meaning of the words escaping her lips, she blurts,

“Will you join me for a late dinner?”

Andrea blinks at her in surprise. Miranda’s cheeks warm with embarrassment, feeling ridiculous at her outburst. She is about to revoke her offer when Andrea grins at her.

“I’d love to.”

Oh. Well. Miranda did not expect that. Then again, Andrea had always been particularly gifted in the art of surprising her despite her extensive knowledge and understanding on how humans operate. Her bewilderment suddenly fades into the background, giving way to a much more pressing worry.

She is going to have dinner with Andrea.

“Right,” she manages to say, but winces at the hoarseness of her voice. “I’ll wait for you to get ready then, and we can go.”

“Okay.”

Miranda’s gaze flickers to the clock on the wall across from her. 9:30 p.m. There are many places still open in Manhattan, especially since closing hours do not apply to Miranda Priestly. However, the mere idea of being in a public place, surrounded by other people, while Miranda is struggling enough as it is in the presence of Andrea, makes her queasy. She needs somewhere quiet where she can hear her own thoughts and focus solely on Andrea, somewhere private where she will feel less on display in the midst of her incomprehensible emotional turmoil.

Decision made, she focuses on Andrea again. The younger woman is looking at her with an expectant - perhaps even amused - expression on her face as she waits for Miranda to do - what? What is she meant to do?

The silence hangs between them as they stare at each other, unmoving. The loud ticking of the clock may as well be a countdown, because Miranda feels like she might explode. She shifts her weight nervously. For the first time since she can remember, Miranda feels _awkward_. It’s absurd, she knows, but Andrea’s eyes seem to dissect her where she stands.

“Well,” Andrea finally speaks, standing from the vanity, and - oh, yes, she is most definitely amused. “If you don’t mind waiting outside? I’m dying to get out of this corset.”

“Oh!” Miranda exhales heavily. For the second time since she walked into this room, her cheeks warm despite her desperate attempts at keeping the blush from her face. “Of course. I’ll just- I’ll be outside.”

She makes a hasty retreat, hiding her mortified expression from Andrea’s mirthful eyes. When she shuts the door behind her, she leans back on it like some sort of dramatic damsel in a movie. The hallway is empty, so nobody catches her as she buries her burning face in her hands. It is unfathomable why images suddenly flash through her mind - Andrea pulling that black corset apart lace by lace, revealing dips and valleys of smooth skin, wild locks of chocolate silk cascading down a naked back. She squeezes her eyes shut in a desperate attempt to rid herself of these visages, and cannot understand why she would even have such thoughts about Andrea of all people.

She is so taken aback by her own mind, so lost in her bewilderment, that she almost misses the sound of footsteps approaching on the other side of the door. Leaping away, she turns just in time for Andrea to open the door. She is wearing high-waisted black jeans and a crimson cashmere jumper, paired with black ankle boots and a large bag slung over her shoulder. Her hair is still free and untamed in the style of Carmen, but Andrea’s overall appearance looks like, well, _Andrea._ Miranda is finally able to take a deep breath.

“Shall we?” She asks. Yes, she feels more like herself again now that all that creamy, alluring skin is no longer on display.

“Where to?” Andrea asks, falling into step with her as they make their way down the hall towards the exit.

“My home, of course,” Miranda says offhandedly, and ignores the way Andrea nearly trips over her own feet.

“Oh,” She says, “Right. Yeah, okay.”

The car journey is quiet in the same way they used to be when Andrea worked for her. It gives Miranda a strange sort of comfort to fall into this old habit of theirs. Andrea had always been the best at reading her, knowing her moods and her needs better than anyone. She’d always understood Miranda’s need for peaceful moments in the middle of her hectic days flooded by loudness and incompetence. She’d offered Miranda something very rare in her life - comfortable, quiet companionship. It made Miranda feel less alone. 

Of course, that backfired spectacularly when Andrea got out of their shared car in Paris and never returned. Miranda had helplessly watched her walk away with a sinking feeling in her chest. After that day, she felt more alone than ever.

But tonight is not the time to dwell in the past. Miranda hates to wallow in matters she cannot change. She understands why Andrea left. It hadn’t made it hurt any less, hadn’t stopped her from feeling betrayed and angry in the beginning, but she did understand. Besides, part of her is glad that everything happened as it did. If it had gone any other way, perhaps Andrea would have never become one of the most talented singers Miranda has ever heard, and perhaps she would not be here tonight.

When they arrive at the townhouse, Miranda leads the way to the kitchen. She offers Andrea a glass of wine, which is accepted with a grateful smile. In the fridge she finds two tupperwares of Cara’s leftover stew and vegetables, so Miranda sets about re-heating them. Meanwhile, Andrea makes herself at home on the barstool facing her across the kitchen island and watches her with keen interest.

“Where are Cassidy and Caroline?” She asks.

“With their father this weekend,” Miranda says, and stirs the stew with a wooden spoon.

“They must be almost sixteen now, right?”

“Yes, it’s their birthday in October,” Miranda answers, and it’s easy for her lips to form a smile at the wonderful topic that is her pride and joy.

“Man, they grow so fast. Have they entered that teenage phase where everything is awful and they want to rebel against every little thing?”

Miranda hums, remembering how, just a few days ago, Cassidy ranted on and on about a boy in her class and his close minded views regarding women. And of course Caroline has a rather impressive collection of speeches prepared regarding LGBTQ+ issues, and in particular bisexual visibility, representation, and rights. Her daughters are turning out to be feisty, outspoken and confident women - something that does not surprise her in the least, considering who their mother is.

“They are indeed, but they have left their pranking antics behind. Now they worry more about climate change, gun control, and equal rights, as well as boys and girls and trends.” Miranda’s smile grows. “It makes me think I did a good job in raising them after all.”

“I never doubted that,” Andrea says, and Miranda snorts in disbelief. “I’m serious. I never understood why people would question your parenting. They never question fathers who work more than they see their kids. It’s an age old double standard that really needs to die. Besides, I know how much effort you put into going to their important events and recitals, how you would always do your best to avoid missing dinner with them. And I know that they adore you, because they told me so themselves on several occasions when I’d deliver The Book early.” 

Andrea shrugs nonchalantly, but Miranda is gaping at her in disbelief. Nobody has ever taken the time to notice these things, or at least tell her to her face without secretly judging her or having ulterior motives. 

“Plus, if they’re anything like you,” Andrea continues. “And I know for a fact that they are, they’re gonna turn out just fine. They’re gonna go out into the world all no-nonsense and confident, and they’re gonna kick some serious butt.” Miranda’s eyes widen further, and Andrea winces at her choice of words. As she scrambles and stumbles over her words, a blush creeps onto her cheeks and she begins to gesture wildly. 

“I mean, uh, not literally, of course. I just mean, um, well, you kick ass every day! You’re literally in charge of thousands of jobs, you’re the leader of a billion-dollar industry, and slimy men like Irv can’t one-up you because you’re just too damn good. Not to mention how brilliant you are, and so many other things, and, well- what I’m trying to say is, um-- Ugh! This is all coming out wrong. What I’m saying is that your kids are great and they’re gonna do great things. There. And I’m shutting up now.”

Well, that was certainly something. It was far more entertaining than any opera, Miranda would say. She chuckles in amusement, because she can’t _not_ do so. Andrea, the very woman who had taken the stage by storm as a suave femme fatale a mere hour ago, is sitting in Miranda’s kitchen blushing furiously, gulping wine to hide her embarrassment. _This_ is Miranda’s tormentor of the past two months?

She turns back to the food, a smirk still twitching at the corners of her lips. She is flattered by Andrea’s words, of course. After the Paris debacle, she’d have thought Andrea regarded Miranda in anything but a positive light. But now, Andrea herself had just complimented Miranda, held her in high regard and admired her work and her ‘brilliance’. It did not even cross Miranda’s mind to doubt her. Andrea had seemed too honest - too flustered in her mortified state - to be deceitful in any capacity. Would wonders never cease?

To give the younger woman an out, Miranda asks her to set the table. Andrea jumps up to do so, eager to be helpful and move on from her embarrassing, charming little speech. Once the table is ready, Miranda fills their plates with food before carrying the bottle of wine to the table.

“This smells delicious.” Andrea licks her lips hungrily, and Miranda tries not to choke on her wine. “I can never have a proper meal before a show, so I’m starved.”

With that, she digs in heartily, and Miranda follows suit. The meal is indeed delicious, and Miranda even cuts up some bread to accompany the stew, much to Andrea’s delight.

They mostly eat in companionable silence, with only Miranda’s selection of classical music filtering through the speakers. 

Occasionally, Andrea asks about Runway, wondering about Emily - who had been promoted to the art department - and Nigel - who had also been offered the promotion he had been waiting for for far too long. Miranda indulges her, telling her some of the most relevant anecdotes from the past four years, while Andrea listens attentively and enjoys Miranda’s sense of humour. Miranda feels immense pleasure every time she makes Andrea laugh with her scathing wit, especially when she throws her head back and exposes the long slope of her elegant neck.

Once they are both finished, Andrea offers to clean the dishes, but Miranda waves her off. She stands and leads the way to the second floor den, pretending not to notice Andrea’s wonderment at being allowed into the privacy of the upstairs part of Miranda’s home. Once they are both settled on the couch with more wine filling their glasses, Andrea leans back with a deep sigh.

“Thank God it was the last performance today,” she says with a roll of her shoulders and a barely stifled groan. “It has been a particularly exhausting show to prepare for, and we’ve been performing almost every day for the past two weeks. I need a break.”

Miranda hums in sympathy, and curls her legs to tuck her feet underneath her. She leans her weight on the arm draped over the back of the couch, and tilts her head.

“Yes, I can imagine how tiring it must be to play Carmen.”

“Don’t even get me started. I mean, I love the part, but it’s quite a big one, and, well…”

“Did you find it challenging because of her… sexual nature?” Miranda dares to ask, far too curious not to. Andrea furrows her brow in thought, but does not seem particularly taken aback by the question.

“Honestly? That wasn’t it. I think deep down we all have a flirtatious side, you know? Sure, we’re living in an age where women are starting to be valued for more than just their appearance or their sex appeal, but I think deep down we all like to feel attractive to some extent. No, the thing that bothered me most was the ending.”

“Ah, yes,” Miranda nods in understanding. It is one of the reasons _Carmen_ is not a favourite of hers. “The old-fashioned, problematic trope that believes if a woman is confident and free and powerful, her fate is to die at the hands of a man.”

“Exactly! I don’t see why that has to be the end. I mean, sure, it does shed light on a problem that still exists in our society every day, where jealous, controlling men kill women. But on the other hand, it’s a story that has been told over and over again in this genre. Can we not have an opera where the woman is a strong, independent heroine that doesn’t end up dead? Can we not have some representation that shows us that women like that deserve a happy ending?”

Miranda raises her glass towards Andrea.

“I’ll drink to that,” she says derisively. 

Andrea raises her glass too, and declares, “To strong, independent women who deserve a happy ending.”

There is something in her eyes that seems to look right into Miranda, as if there is something she wants to say with just that look alone. There is no chance Miranda can understand the hidden meaning in the depths of dark chocolate orbs, so she simply clinks their glasses together and drinks.

“So, opera huh?” Andrea asks after a moment. “I didn’t know you were a fan.”

One of the reasons Miranda had been so taken aback by her dinner invitation was because it would entail someone knowing her deeply guarded secret. It unsettles her that she would be opening up about this with someone after keeping this part of herself hidden away from everyone. But a big part of her wants to talk about it openly with someone who understands, and she wants that person to be Andrea.

“Yes,” she says. “I have loved it for many years. Since I was in my twenties.”

Andrea nods. “You know, I can totally see that. It suits you.”

Miranda does not know how to take this statement, but after a moment’s hesitation, decides to take it as a compliment. She shrugs a shoulder and sips her wine.

“What kind of operas do you like?” Andrea asks, and leans closer. “I enjoy the classics, but there are some modern ones that are just amazing. There’s one called _As One_ about a transgender woman that really blew my mind.”

“I haven’t heard of that one,” Miranda says, intrigued.

“It’s pretty recent, but really beautiful.”

“I’ll have a look for any coming performances. Perhaps my girls would enjoy opera for once if I took them to that one.”

“I think so,” Andrea agrees enthusiastically. “I think it’s coming to New York in September.”

“Perfect.” Miranda makes a mental note of it. Perhaps she could take the girls as a pre-birthday present. “As for my tastes, Puccini has always been a favourite of mine.”

Andrea suddenly looks at her as if she’s just had a revelation.

“Oh! It _was_ you!” Andrea exclaims, and Miranda reels back.

“Excuse me?”

“I saw you in the audience at the _Gianni Schicchi_ performance three months ago! I thought I was imagining things - after all, it’s not like you can see the audience very well from the stage. But I thought I saw you, and, I don’t know, I felt--” Andrea clamps her mouth shut, and seems to debate with herself whether to continue or not. 

Miranda is far too curious, however, and the hesitant, shy expression on Andrea is such an unfamiliar sight that it only makes her want to know what she was going to say.

“What? What did you feel?” She prompts with a soft voice. Andrea bites her lip, but then seems to come to a decision.

“I felt you there that night,” She confesses, and Miranda feels frozen in place. “I don’t know how to explain it. There was a certain energy in the room, one that I have only ever experienced with you. It’s like I could feel you watching me.”

“Oh.” 

Miranda swallows past the lump in her throat, but it does nothing to soothe the sensation. The way Andrea is looking at her stirs something incomprehensible inside her. Brown almond eyes gaze at her with such brightness and intensity that Miranda has to look away. The air between them fills with a delicious kind of tension, even as Miranda tries to wrap her mind around everything Andrea has just revealed. She is communicating in riddles - her words have a certain depth to them, her eyes a hidden meaning. 

Miranda needs to break through this glass wall between them. She doesn’t want to be separated from everything anymore.

“I want to show you something,” she says, and stands from her seat.

Andrea looks at her in confusion, but a moment later she is standing too, and follows Miranda out of the room. She follows her to the staircase, up and up and up. They reach the fourth floor and follow the corridor to a door that has been unlocked since Stephen moved out. Miranda had always kept it locked whenever anyone lived with them, but now it was just her girls, so Miranda no longer felt the need for the key. 

She opens the door, flicks on the light switch, and feels something inside her settle as the room is bathed in low warm light. One wall is made of large windows overlooking the garden, and the city lights are laid before them in a blur of colours. Another wall is home to a large fireplace, with two ornate paintings on either side. Most importantly, two large oak shelves cover the entirety of the last two walls, filled to the brim with CDs and vinyl disks, books and magazines and playbills. These shelves contain some of Miranda’s most treasured possessions, one of her best hidden secrets that has never been shared with anyone.

Until now.

“Wow,” Andrea whispers, stepping inside the room and looking at the shelves with widened eyes.

Miranda follows closely behind and watches as Andrea reverently runs her fingers over the countless recordings on display.

“Miranda, this is amazing.”

Andrea sounds awed, and Miranda preens. Despite the fact that she is revealing a part of herself nobody else has seen, she feels incredibly proud that it has garnered Andrea’s admiration. 

It has taken her more than two decades to build this collection. She has everything here, from Mozart to Verdi to Britten, all of her favourites works in differing versions and endless performances. She has lost count of just how many she owns, because counting past the point of three hundred just seemed excessive on her part.

“Thank you,” she says, and feels a strange sort of relief wash over her.

One particular vinyl disk grabs Andrea’s attention, and she carefully pulls it out of its place in the centre of the shelf. The cover is more worn than the others, the corners slightly bent and the colours lightly faded. Miranda bought it with her first pay check from _Runway,_ and has listened to it so many times that she can play the track in her mind like she is listening to it in person.

“May I?” Andrea asks. “It’s my favourite song.”

Miranda nods, and waves towards the large vinyl player in the corner beside the fireplace. While Andrea sets about putting it in place, Miranda pours them more wine and makes herself comfortable in one of the two armchairs in front of the fire. Even though she’d never invited anyone to sit with her in this room, she’d always enjoyed symmetry in everything. More than that, she always hoped she would finally find someone who would sit in the other arm chair and listen to opera with her for hours.

Life is truly remarkable sometimes. She would never have thought that Andrea would be that person - the one she had been waiting for. Of all the people in the world, it was the ex-assistant who had impressed Miranda more than anyone else under her employ, whose potential and defiance had thrilled Miranda in ways she never had the words to describe.

Looking at the woman now, Miranda could hardly believe she was real. Long, elegant fingers delicately placed the vinyl disk on the player, her touch reverent. With the first notes of Madama Butterfly’s _‘Un Bel dì Vedremo’_ , Andrea’s shoulders lose all their tension. Her eyes flutter shut, her head tilts back as the voice of Mirella Freni fills the room. Miranda can’t take her eyes off Andrea’s profile, the blissful expression on her smooth features looking almost as elated as Miranda feels every time she listens to this particular piece.

She feels so connected with Andrea at this moment. Two women frozen in time, swept into another state of being by the notes reverberating from an invisible orchestra and the female voice filled with such emotion that it threatens to break Miranda’s heart. She closes her eyes to revel in it. Every time she listens to this, she could float away, drift out of her body and into endless space. So many times she has wanted just that: to cease existing, to become nothingness and get lost in the music, to leave herself behind and remain in peaceful oblivion for the rest of time.

When Andrea sits down beside her, Miranda’s eyes flutter open and she is brought back into herself. Andrea is looking at her with a soft expression, but for some unfathomable reason, Miranda does not feel like hiding away. Instead of feeling exposed and vulnerable, she feels seen and understood. 

“I’ve never brought anyone here,” she confesses, and Andrea leans closer. The music embraces them in a bubble of their own, and nothing else could matter in this moment. “I’ve never taken anyone with me to see an opera. I’ve never shared this part of myself with anyone.”

Andrea doesn’t say anything. She simply smiles and reaches out with her hand, placing her palm over Miranda’s. Her skin is soft.

“Thank you for sharing it with me,” she says, her voice smooth velvet accompanying the music.

Miranda smiles at her then, a true, honest smile that lights up her entire face. She cannot remember ever feeling like this. She sinks into the backrest, sips her wine, and closes her eyes, letting herself be taken by the music once more. Andrea follows suit, and for the next three and a half minutes, they sit in silence as they’re both swept away.

When the song draws to an end, the silence that fills the room feels new. There are no words that could convey everything the song evokes in them, so they sit quietly for a little while longer. The sound of the city barely filters through the glass windows, just a distant hum amidst the peacefulness that has enveloped them both.

After long moments, Miranda turns her head to look at her companion. The younger woman looks beautiful in this light, and something inside her suddenly needs to hear her.

“Sing for me.”

She makes the request softly, almost shyly. Andrea’s face turns towards her and she smiles.

“What would you like me to sing?”

Miranda does not even stop to think about it.

“My favourite song. I’ve already heard you sing it before, but I would like to hear it again.”

 _“‘O mio babbino caro?’”_ She guesses.

A nod is her only response, and she watches as Andrea takes one last sip of wine before setting her glass on the coffee table before her. Avid blue eyes follow the brunette as she stands and rounds the coffee table. Even though she didn’t think Andrea could surprise her more than she already has, Miranda is proven wrong when Andrea lowers herself to her knees before her. Miranda’s hands are cradled between two soft ones, and she cannot take her eyes off the divine creature kneeling in front of her, looking up at her with lively dark eyes.

When she starts singing, her voice sounds even better than Miranda could remember it. Here in Miranda’s favourite place, without the accompanying orchestra, hardly any distance between them, Andrea gazing up at her like this and holding her hands, Miranda feels herself broken down and pieced back together again. Andrea’s voice, so beautiful and true, heals something she hadn’t known was broken. 

She can hardly breathe, and momentarily wonders how it’s possible that she is so deeply affected by this woman. That a simple verse sung from her lips can make her feel more than all the operas put together. She is so overwhelmed that her hands involuntarily squeeze Andrea’s, and it makes the younger woman smile as she sings. Miranda’s chest tightens at the sight.

Andrea holds the last note until her voice fades away, growing quieter and quieter until silence once again reigns between them. Miranda can hear her heart thumping in her ears, and even though the song is finished, even though there are no words coming forth from either of them, Andrea does not move away, and Miranda does not release her hands. The feeling of standing at the edge of a cliff vanishes as she falls over the precipice, but she is enveloped by a sense of safety as Andrea closes the distance between them. She is caught in the feeling of Andrea’s lips meeting hers, soft and warm unlike anything Miranda has ever felt before. 

_Oh._

Andrea sighs against her, murmuring something that sounds remarkably like _“Miranda”._ She melts. Strong arms wrap around her waist as Miranda trails her fingers over a strong jaw, a soft cheek, into silky hair. They are lost in the feeling of each other, embracing so tightly that there is hardly any space between them at all.

When they pull apart to gasp for air, Miranda watches in awe as Andrea’s eyelids flutter open. They gaze at each other, marvelling at what has just happened between them. Miranda’s heart feels as if it’s about to pound out of her chest, and she tentatively watches for any signs of regret on Andrea’s face.

All she finds is elation. Andrea smiles at her, the brightest smile Miranda has ever seen, and reaches up to tenderly brush her forelock away from her eye. She doesn’t realise she is smiling too until she leans forward to kiss Andrea once more, feeling the curl of her own lips even as Andrea’s press against hers.

Something in Miranda feels like it’s finally whole, the missing puzzle piece falling into place. She knows with certainty that from now on, she has someone to share all of herself with. No more secrets, no more hiding away, no more locked doors. It feels like the greatest gift of all.


End file.
